E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: R
POSTED: Aug. 31, 2005
SUMMARY: Together they don't just fill those weaknesses that every man comes into the world bearing, they fucking well surpass them.
NOTES: Written for the Yuletide New Year Resolution 2005 challenge, for kait of doom's request of "Any. No incest." Blessings on Pouncer and Zira for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Read
They've always done (for, to, because of, in spite of) when the other needed. Never could there be anything they wouldn't do, Murphy's always known. But--
"Fucking hell, Connor!"
What one of them knows, it's as good as if it were the both of them with the knowledge. No fucking mind reading going on; they just know. Always. Except, he thinks, for the times when one or the other doesn't tell before he comes plummeting down from the sky.
"Stop flopping around there and say something, would'ya!"
Tighter than skin. Deeper than blood. You don't spend so long so close without picking up bits from each other, they've said plenty of times, especially being that young and impressionable.
"Gonna let it be said that I can take it and you can't?"
Murphy growls when even that doesn't get a twitch, because damn it, if they're anything, they're competitive fuckers. Both of them, yeah, ever since they agreed that being first counts -- maybe even more when there's no way to be sure.
"Beat you bloody myself, you keep this up. That's a promise."
That not all the little things (first kiss, first blood, first death) come with the two of them side by side doesn't mean shit; they are not the same person.
"Fuck, you're heavy, y'bastard. ...Sorry, Ma."
They are more, because together they don't just fill those weaknesses that every man comes into the world bearing, they fucking well surpass them.
"Have to get you bandaged. And maybe something for that thick skull."
By that logic, pain should be a hell of a lot easier, Murphy feels. And it is (it is gone, it doesn't exist) when it's yours. When it's your brother's? That doesn't bear thinking.
"Why'd you do that, you idiot? Who the fuck jumps off a--"
"Y-you..."
"Connor?"
"...tryin' t'kill me, amadán?"
"Jesus. Fuck, yes."
Raised with it all ringing in your ears, you got three languages before you thought you were learning -- English for the life, Irish for the land, Latin for the Service and the soul.
As long as they had the Latin, they decided to put it to some practical use. It was some time after that decision that Connor came this close to dying with Murphy's hands around his neck again. But hell, what else was he to do but fall over laughing when Murphy asked what kind of backwards shit was it that French and Spanish were easier than Italian? Connor finally bucked hard enough to come around on top in their tussle, and said with only a little bit of a rasp that it was the ninth fucking wonder, so stop whining. They've a standing dare for Murphy to come up with a plausible eighth, and no, women still don't count.
The basics of Russian came with an early job. They'd discovered the satisfaction of speaking your mind in the face of others' ignorance, but that didn't mean they had to like it when it was them on the receiving end of sly looks and open insults. In that case, it made good business sense to learn, and learn quick, didn't it? And made them several friends, as well, once bruises faded and cuts healed.
Stuck on a boat with dark clouds making for the perfect, darker night, Connor stumbled over the books on the way to heaving his guts over the side. He set his swaying mind to making sense of the German in them because fuck it, it made all the rocking and to-ing and fro-ing fucking stop. Two long hours later, though, what little he'd sorted meant it wasn't their bodies at the bottom of the North Channel with a bullet each in their brains. Fucking fantastic, Murphy declared. They hung onto the books, along with other things, and by the time the real smugglers showed their faces at the flat -- wanting to know why they'd no men, no cigarettes, and, most importantly, no money -- it was Connor providing the bare bones of a response while Murphy stood at his side, mouth silent, eyes deadly.
Where they learned the bit with the guns, well, that came shortly after the Latin, and it's a far longer story.
So very many floors from the ground. He hadn't been thinking it then, hadn't been thinking but one thing, but hell, he's thinking it now. And that gut-dropping distance wasn't what made the view a glimpse into hell, Connor lets Murphy know with a long look. Murphy's mouth twists, but Connor holds his eyes and refuses to lie back on an offered arm, or pillow, or any other thing, not while he's still a man who can sit upright.
Another look is necessary to send Murphy away from Connor's side and over to the public phone. Two looks, to be truthful, since all the first gets is a sneer of a scowl that -- if not for the gray-haired nurse there to bind one wrist, then the other -- might well have been a drawled "Fuck that."
They're alive, is all Connor can think as he drops down next to the boy who's little more than skin and that giant green cap. Murphy's not looking; his back is bent, protection and warning, and he's holding the phone close to his mouth while sharing the tale that no one in this corridor needs to hear. Connor turns his eyes from that eloquent stance after barely a moment. And he doesn't have to break off from the joke that's coaxing out the boy's smile when he hears the jangle of the call's end; he puts out a hand and Murphy's hand is right there to pull him to his feet.
The idea is out of Murphy's mouth for some time before Connor shakes his head.
"That's it," Connor says, and almost trips over the curb.
More concerned about the stumble than the sharp statement, Murphy steadies Connor with a hand on his hip and continues to lead them east, away from their flat.
Connor doesn't pull away as he finishes off the jibe, "Both shares went to you, so it was bound to happen. The insanity. Takin' over."
On another day, Murphy would slap or snap, reflex and nearly three decades' habit taking control. But today he simply stops. When Connor's next careful step takes him away from Murphy's touch, Connor turns his head and Murphy is ready with the crooked smile that he knows works better than a dare.
Connor's eyes narrow just as they should, yet Murphy can't resist asking, "What better way to finish off this day than as we began?"
"I'm bloody from head to toe, my arse is cold...it's more the way I entered this fucking life," Connor mutters, but there's no heat to it. And soon enough the wicked grin that Murphy's expecting appears.
"It'd be a twist to the tail, appearing out of nowhere in this state," Connor says with a chuckle that Murphy goads into a laugh with an obscene gesture, one that's gotten their heads knocked in three cities on two continents.
The laugh dies as the stone of the precinct comes into view, though, and the bright smear of blood at his temple is the only color on Connor's face for a breath too long. Holding his tongue, knowing better than to worry aloud about any weakness now, Murphy catches Connor's arm, and he slings it up and pulls it around his own neck, gladly taking what weight his brother allows.
"To hell with Mister FBI, then?" Murphy asks, making the challenge official.
"Aye." Connor's hand tightens on Murphy's shoulder and stays tight, warm and so fucking right. "To hell with them all."
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